—Fire

She wrote to him that night.

August—, 19—

Dear Fire,

I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the time we met. Thank you so much for your package. I received it today, and I was thrilled out of my mind.

When I met you my life wasn’t perfect, but I’d grown accustomed to its routine. I apologize for being so apprehensive with you, but I’m sure you can understand why.

I know that you’re probably wondering, then, why I seemed so friendly toward you when you and Claire came by that Sunday. It was because when you called my number earlier that afternoon, looking for Claire, you were concerned that I wasn’t sounding well without knowing who I was. And that told me that you are kind to people period—not just to the ones in whom you have a romantic interest. And that small act, that display of basic goodness, elevated you in my estimation.

You may prove yourself to be other than I believe you to be. Maybe you are not bad, but ordinary, like most people, who give to get. And as I survey my own life I realize that at times I have accepted this social currency as being valid, and have traded in it myself.

I don’t know much about you, Fire. As a matter of fact, I don’t know you at all. But when I met you something happened inside of me, and (since you were allowed to be trite in your letter I should have a chance too) a spark was lit. And every time I’ve been in touch with you, it has grown brighter.

I’m about to say things, Fire, that I don’t want to say, so let me go. Things about needing your nipple so bad right now. Things about touching myself the first night that I met you and falling asleep with you on my mind.

My Jamaican guy—Grace Jones won’t mind if I bite a piece of hers.

—Sylvia

Her letter arrived on one of his days off and he immediately called her. He was lounging in bed in yellow boxers, his head propped up against a pillow, a glass of water on the nightstand. A soccer player, Fire had a strong body that suggested torque rather than horsepower. He had a hard, wide chest. A dense middle. And long, sturdy legs that matched his arms.

With each spin of the dial ripples of excitement washed through his body. The excitement, however, was no longer simply romantic. There was a strong undercurrent of eroticism that was threatening to drag him out to sea and drown him. For the first time he experienced the sensuousness of the rotary dial, the slipping of his fingers into the holes, the tight fit, the twisting around, the arcing groan of the spinback. It was ten in the morning for her, three P.M. for him.

“Hello,” Sylvia said when she came on the line, “how are you?”

“Fine, and yourself?”

“Good, thank you.”

“I have your letter here,” he said, “and I’d just like you to know that it’s nice to know that you think I’m nice.”